


Stranger Things: Sǝɐsou Ɛ

by Under_Construction_000



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1980s Era Queen (Band), 80's Music, Adventure, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Have a Good Relationship, Brotherly Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Character Development, Complicated Relationships, Developing Friendships, Eleven | Jane Hopper & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Friendship, Eleven | Jane Hopper and Mike Wheeler in Love, Emo Mike Wheeler, Emotional Baggage, End of the World, Epic, Epic Friendship, Friendship, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Good Older Sibling Nancy Wheeler, Good Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper, Good Sibling Jonathan Byers, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Hurt/Comfort, Jim "Chief" Hopper Lives, Martin Brenner Being an Asshole, Maxine "Max" Mayfield Needs a Hug, Protective Eleven | Jane Hopper, Protective Mike Wheeler, Protective Steve Harrington, Soccer Mom Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, caught in a landslide, is this just fantasy, is this the real life, look up to the skies and, no escape from reality, open your eyes, seeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Under_Construction_000/pseuds/Under_Construction_000
Summary: Kill Brenner. That was Mike's... sort-of-plan. Only now, the gang are on the run, Mike's a convicted criminal, and their 'getaway car' is a school bus being driven across Indiana by Steve Harrington… so... guess plans change.AU if Brenner came back for El- set fourteen months after S2
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper, Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, person who's clicked on this. Maybe you're bored. Maybe you're stuck in lockdown and have nothing better to do. Maybe you're an avid fanfic reader, checking for updates daily. Whatever it is, I appreciate you giving this a read! 
> 
> And even the weird author-y bit at the beginning! I see you ;-) 
> 
> I don't know if anyone even reads ST fanfics anymore… But I've been sitting on this idea for a while, and finally feel ready to post, so… yay. Basically this is an alternative season 3, and an idea I've had in my head since I saw season 2. Am I late to the party? Yes. But that won't stop me from posting! Because I really believe in the characters here- and I've tried to include every flipping one, so no favourites get skipped! I've included songs I imagine would work as a backdrop/ have written them into the story, because you can't write about the 80's without THE MUSIC!
> 
> Disclaimer: obviously I own nothing, this is a creative exercise, not aiming to overthrow Netflix. Also, I've tried to make this story suitable for all ages, but will include references to domestic abuse (and minor references to assault in later chapters), as well as references to PTSD, depression, and of course murder… so maybe not… all ages… but will include warnings and disclaimers at the beginning of every chapter, so there's no one being caught off guard.
> 
> If you read all that… I'm impressed, but the story's down there \/

__ St. Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion) by John Parr __

"…does look like it's going to be getting heavier over the next few days…" Dustin grabbed the remote and turned the volume up on the TV. When the woman with the pulled back permed hair and the pink shoulder padded blazer half smiled. It was like she could see through the screen, every kid in Hawkins doing the exact same thing. She spoke in a silky voice,

"school closures have been issued-" that was all Dustin needed to hear before he jumped up and yelled 'yes!', slightly knocking his tray of microwave dinner, orange juice sloshing and spilling over the rim of the glass. He didn't care, and for a while, he danced around the coffee table. Snatching up his radio, he pulled up the antenna, pressed the button and yelled at the intercom,

"What did I tell you?" Dustin laughed, collapsing on the sofa and started on his microwave leftovers. When an achingly familiar bell rang through the hallways.

Everyday. Six o'clock.

It rang again. Again. And again.

"Son of a-" Dustin slammed his tray on the coffee table making a loud, clattering sound- all accumulating to the general noise; the television, Dustin's screaming "all right, all right, all right" and now the doorbell. Steve pressed his finger on the button unremittingly.

"Yeah! I got it! Jeez-"

Ever since Dustin's mom's promotion, the same thing happened every week on Tuesdays and Wednesdays at six o'clock for the past two months. Not that either of them were counting.

Dustin opened the door to see him tightening his duffel coat that was zipped up to his mouth, doing a strange bounce, "Hey little boy, it's cold!" He walked through the mist of condensation he'd made with his breath, tracking snow in the first two footsteps. He shivered, making such a deal out of it, you'd have thought he'd been out there for hours, "how 'bout next time don't take a thousand years to answer the door!" He was uncharacteristically cranky when he was cold, so Dustin let it slide, and rolled his eyes, shuffling back to the living room to poke the fire, reinvigorating it like Steve taught him last time he was here.

They'd fallen into a comfortable routine after the news of Dustin's mother's promotion. After the snowball, it wasn't a week before Steve became prey to Mrs Henderson's cautious way of asking for favours. More specifically, the weekday 'house sitting' while she was working late (she called it house sitting for his pride, Steve and Dustin liked that term better, too). Steve let her believe it was all a job to him. He didn't mind her thinking that. After his mom found out, Steve thought her reaction alone would garner some sort of 'son of the year' branded mug, or t-shirt. Maybe a placemat. He was getting paid $20 an hour, so there was that. And Nancy… her opinion factored into it as well. But the truth of it was: he didn't feel put out.

"Seriously, I don't need a babysitter," Dustin threw another log on the pile, "you don't have to keep coming."

Steve said nothing. That was the catch: Dustin didn't necessarily know that this was a 'paid' gig, as such. He didn't need to know, Steve justified to himself. That didn't stop him from worrying that one day he might find out.

Steve swallowed uncomfortably, not that Dustin saw. He was filling the kettle passed its maximum limit, something Steve knew Dustin hated, and flicked it on, still bouncing like a four year old.

"I'm actually here for the cat… you know, after what happened to the last one…" It was a wise crack, Dustin knew. A bad one. Dustin made a 'very funny' face, returning to his, now lukewarm, microwave mash potato and sausages.

Steve didn't stop bouncing for the next ten minutes, then finally quit complaining when he warmed his hands over the steam of his hot cocoa while they watched repeats of three's company. Dustin ate his dinner, and argued with Steve's choice comments about the things he'd like to do to Suzanne Somers.

"What? I can't help it, she's hot." Steve held out a hand to the T.V set. Steve had done well to put an end to all the rumours around Hawkins that he was still hung up on the Wheeler's daughter. He'd done that thoroughly, and effectively with a little trick he called 'sleeping with half the girls his age in Hawkins'. It wasn't quite half, but the number didn't matter. It was enough to dull his senses. As with everything lacking substance, it lost it's novelty pretty quickly. If he wasn't sleeping in someone else's bed, or making out with some Brittany or Angela in his car outside the park, he was playing basketball with a bunch of douchebags he had nothing in common with anymore. If he wasn't doing those things- that only meant he was working for his dad, which… sucked. How had hanging out with this kid become the only thing he was good at? The only thing he actually looked forward to anymore?

When the hell had that happened? Steve didn't know.

"She's 'hot'?" Dustin said with his mouth full.

"You're saying you don't think she's hot?"

"No- I think she's stupid, Steve."

"They've just… written her that way for comedic effect! She's probably not like that in real life." Canned laughter sounded in the background, marking a witty line they'd both missed. This was pretty normal. They never got through an episode without some sort of debate.

"You think you'd have a chance with her in real life?" Dustin laughed. Steve stuttered a small response at that, expressing the affirmative with absolutely no confidence at all.

When the lights flickered. For a second. The image of Suzanne Somers collapsing in on itself. Steve tutted, knowing he'd have to endure fifty thousand electric shocks while he checked the wiring. But Dustin shot up. He scrambled to his feet so quickly, he shook the coffee table. The remote rattled, but Steve's half-full mug of hot chocolate was knocked over with a porcelain-to-glass thud.

"Dustin!" He picked up the handle, throwing a towel over the brown puddle before it spread to the edge and stained Mrs Henderson's new carpet. "What the hell, man?" Steve spun round, but all he saw was the open front door.

'And just like that', Steve mused, 'the central heating was made redundant'.

A trail of footprints spread a line from the front porch to the middle of the driveway. Steve shuffled outside with his sneakers half-on, ready to grab Henderson by the shirt and drag him inside. When he stopped to peer over at whatever it was Dustin was gawping at.

There was a black van, parked on the other side of the street. The vehicle had blacked out windows and logo that was too small to see from here. The van started up, and lit the snowy road with white headlights as it pulled out, dring down the street.

Dustin swallowed.

"Steve… I think they're back," he panted with a stiff jaw, "don't ask me how-"

"-Woah, woah woah, take it easy, alright? Just breathe." Dustin nodded, creating a longer line of condensation with his next breath.

"S'good… Okay, come on, we're going inside, it's freezing-"

"It's not safe to talk inside." Dustin shook his head, a look of mature solemnity that would have made Steve smirk… if he didn't know how real this stuff was.

From his casual questions, Steve had managed to extract information about the others from Dustin over the last couple of weeks. How they were doing since… what happened… happened. Partly just to make conversation, but partly to know how they did it. He wasn't immune. There were times he flinched when someone tapped his shoulder in the line at big boy. When shadows in the dark moved with the sound of a passing car, but still managed to freak the hell out of him at one in the morning. These guys. Well, they were just kids. He thought about that a lot.

Mike and the girl with powers had formed an 'unhealthy codependency'- Dustin's words- since the night she came back. Steve wasn't surprised. Lucas, he was different in that he didn't talk about it, going so far as to change the subject every time Dustin brought it up, distracting himself with school, and his growing side business of lawn mowing, and Max. Steve didn't mention Max. He didn't know that much about the kid, and it seemed a saw subject with Dustin. Driving Dustin home from school, he saw Will, and they exchanged awkward small talk about homework and Mrs Buyers'… health… he couldn't really remember. Only, it stuck with him, because when Dustin shut the car door, he exclaimed that that was the most Will had spoken all day. So that was it. Will clammed up more than usual.

Dustin- of course- worked slightly differently than the rest of them.

He threw all of his attentions into spotting the next conspiracy, and his paranoid behaviours had been getting him into trouble at school, and at home. The lights flickering was just electricity, Steve had seen that van parked outside of the care home down by park gate. But telling Dustin this only made things worse.

"-no, think I'm crazy, Steve, I don't care-"

"-I don't think you're crazy-"

"-no, seriously, that's fine, I know what I saw! That van has been parked there all day, I've seen it at school!"

"At school?" Steve raised an eyebrow, and Dustin faltered.

"Well, not at school, but sometimes it drives passed me when I'm walking home."

"That van? Same registration number?"

"I DON'T KNOW- I don't memorise registration numbers, STEVE!"

"Then how do you know it's the same one?"

"B-because…" Dustin threw his arm out, and let it fall with a slap on his flannel pyjama trousers, "… Because it's… black!"

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, "Dustin, buddy, you've got to stop with this, okay? I get it, I do, but… it's over."

Putting a hand on Dustin's shoulder, "You've got to move on."

Steve felt a bit like his dad when he was trying to talk to him about his grades. That is- unwelcome and unheeded. Not that it didn't help Dustin feel a bit better. I mean, the pep talk would have held more weight if it hadn't been punctuated by Steve shuffling back to the front door with his shoes half on. But Dustin looked at the fluttering specs of snow, temporarily lit by the orange street lamp, and frowned.

It didn't matter that Steve didn't believe him. Nothing was 'over' yet.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __Still Loving You by Scorpians__
> 
> Karen and Billy spot Max acting up
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This chapter includes direct references to abuse in the home, which I will preface with ‘§’ so anyone who wishes to skip it may do so. This is a fictional work, and a creative exercise, I would genuinely hate it if anyone got upset by this. I would also like to mention that this isn’t going to be a continuous storyline, but is relevant in this chapter in terms of plot. (For those of you who would like to skip it- the storyline is essentially the same as the show- Billy's father is abusive, and it's getting worse towards him, Susan and Max in spite of the move. Karen gets worried.)

__Still Loving You by Scorpions__

The red stop sign wobbled when the car, booming out a soft guitar, zoomed passed it.

Any song from Scorpions was something Billy would sing along to himself- but with a small mouth, just on the off chance someone caught him singing to himself.

"I will be there  
I will be there"

He hummed, half smiling, and moved his hand on the steering wheel to pull into the school field. Tyres crunched the gravel while he rolled passed the group of younger kids smoking under the bleachers. He snorted. What a cliche. These kids, who thought they were so hard, when the sad reality of it was, they had nothing better to do. No better exertion for their pent up boycotting energies than smoking in a group of four… on school property. Pathetic. He smiled. Not like him. He hadn’t been that kid in a while. Frat parties, fights in alleyways, powdery gifts in plastic sandwich bags wedged between the books in his locker. That was last year’s Billy. 

Juvenile. Petty delinquency. This year, things were looking up. He had a job, he was three weeks away from owning an apartment. He was sleeping with a woman who wasn’t a complete air head. Sure, she was married, but what did that matter? White picket fences, he thought, had always looked easy enough to jump over.

"Is there really no chance  
To start once again"

His headlights caught the rim of her black coat. Billy licked his lips, and slowed the car to a stop. 

"I'm loving you"

Karen walked confidently, but cautiously. That’s when he noticed her black heeled boots. Billy couldn’t help smiling, a smile that reached his eyes. Hawkins really wasn’t turning out to be so bad, after all. They hadn’t gotten the car door all the way closed, before his lips crashed into her brilliant smile, mid-way greeting him in that warm way she always did. It came as both unexpected, and completely expected as she embraced him, folding her hands through the mass of dark curls. 

Pulling away became necessary when Karen’s hand slipped, getting caught between the leather seats. Billy laughed, and told her they wouldn’t have to keep hooking up in his car when the offer came through for his new apartment. He’d been working every spare hour he could at the dealership, who paid him well for his working over time, not realising it wasn’t his excellent work ethic that kept him in that garage.

§Neil and Susan had been rattling the roof tiles with their yelling matches. But mostly Neil. Turns out, amazingly enough, moving away from Sam Mayfield hadn’t cured Neil’s jealous temperament. And, incredibly, moving houses hadn’t miraculously changed everyone’s personality for the better. Neil broke his promise with a six pack of beer in their first month. He broke his second promise the same day with a blow to Susan’s right eye. She’d cover it up with thick mismatched makeup before her aerobics class, and they’d add it to the mile long list of things they wouldn’t talk about.

It was a long list. So much had happened since Max had turned fourteen. He didn’t like to think about it, which was easy, because Billy would sometimes go for days without seeing them. The only evidence of Susan's existence was wet strands of red hair on the shower screen, or coffee cups on the draining board. Max? He’d be with her all day- for weeks, or not at all. And their relationship went as far as Billy pretending not to hear her sneak out the back window. It was... complicated. You’d think that having less people at home would have made Neil less volatile, but he missed picking fights. Something small, like the garbage bin bag not being replaced with a new bag, would have gotten Billy an earful last year, nothing more. Now, that- and anything deemed ‘disrespectful behaviour’- was a blue mark on his jaw, a broken bottle on the peeling wallpaper in their kitchen, or worse. 

In short, they were the family equivalent of a car accident. And Karen Wheeler? She was his equivalent of a hot paramedic.

Karen had started seeing these marks a few weeks after they started seeing each other. She remembered from Mike’s experience at preschool how to go about asking those kinds of questions. Tonight, Billy was about to kiss her again when the shiner on his right eye caught in the stadium lights.

“Hey, your eye-“  
“-don’t worry about that-“ he waved her off, but this time, that only made her more persistent.  
“Billy, again?” Her polished hands rubbed the leather sleeve of his jacket, “we have to talk about this.” And sighing, he seemed to deflate in the driver’s seat. For a moment, he shifted uncomfortably. Then smirking, smoothly, he relaxed his head on the headrest and looked at her with a side-eye.  
§  
“You’re so cute when you worry about me.”  
Karen didn’t fall for it, and her wet eyes fluttered up at him, almost hesitantly. “I do worry about you. Nancy told me about you and your sister sleeping in your car last week outside the laundromat. Max can stay in Mike’s room if she needs a place to stay. I just want you to know that things never need to get that bad, Billy, you know I’m always here if you need me.” Billy’s smirk faltered. 

Taking out a cigarette with his mouth, he reached over her for the lighter. “She’s not my sister.” Was all he said. The unjustifiable anger in him swelled up, again, making him dizzy, like it always did. He wouldn’t yell, not if he could help it, but damn it, this was going to be the last time she would bring stuff like this up. He’d make sure of that, he was about to yell things he’d regret within the hour. Things like ’and you’re not my girlfriend’, ‘why don’t you ask Ted if he wouldn’t mind giving me his room for a couple weeks?’ and ‘we’re the ones who need help? You’re having an affair with an eighteen year old kid, you’re a mother of three, and we need help?’

Luckily, something happened before he got the chance to ruin everything.

“Is that…” Karan frowned, “is that Max?”

Billy looked to the football field, frowning at the group of miniature skinheads wearing their dad’s clothes. No. That couldn’t be Max. Those weren’t the usual dorks she hung out with. A cloud of smog, too grey to be condensation, surrounded one of them. As it cleared, Billy made out the hair before anything else. It was Max. The girl carried a skateboard, and her tiny frame was drowning in one of Billy’s black hoodies. The kids with her were laughing, and cheering at one boy, who was balancing a can of beer on his head, walking across one of the metal rows in the bleachers. Max wasn’t looking at any of them. She wasn’t laughing, or smiling. Then Billy saw the orange glow between her fingers. 

And then, there was a different amygdala hijack to contend with.

“I’ll be right back.” Slamming the car door, he ran to slip through the hole in the wire fence, hardly aware that he was running. Max had spotted him before the other four boys did. 

“HEY!”

They spun round and looked ready for a fight. Then, they saw him- a boy three years older than them, and over a foot taller than them. They quickly grabbed their bags, pulled their trousers up, and scattered before Billy got close enough to grab one by the ears. Snow fleets shone behind Billy in the stadium lights. An angry girl sat in the shadows, resting her elbows on her knees and fixing her glare on the ground. She was watching where her cigarette ash fell, watching the black dots they made in the snow. 

He caught his breath in the end, but didn’t speak. Max looked blankly at him. She took another swig out of her coke can. Billy could smell the sour tang of spirits on her breath from three feet away. Strands of matted hair was pulled back behind her ears, and made dramatically clear how crater-like the hollows of her cheeks were, how purple the sockets of her eyes were. Max wasn’t waiting for him to say anything. In fact, she looked straight through him.

She took another puff of her cigarette like she’d done it a thousand times before, like she was exhausted with it- with her cigarette, with the woman in her step brothers passenger seat, and most especially with the meat-head breathing heavily in front of her. So Billy said nothing, and it was only when his heartbeat had stopped pounding in his ears, he realised he left the keys in the ignition.

“Get in the car.”

The cigarette butt hissed when she stamped it into the sleet, and she balanced the red tin can on a frosted fence post before shoving both hands in her pockets, and walked ahead of him.

Other than ‘hey’ and ‘bye’, Max didn’t speak to Karan. Billy’s empty threats once Karan had shut the car door fell on deaf ears, but she nodded anyway. The hell did she care? She hadn’t cared about a lot of things, recently. Not since that night. 

Billy knew this- he was the only one that did. It’s why he hadn’t given her any crap for tonight’s escapades. It’s why he didn’t give her any crap on their way home... 

When, two junctions before they arrived to their street, Billy squinted at the three cars indicating up ahead. The red traffic light bounced a red glow off the bonets of every car... 

... He recognised one of them amost immediately. 

Neil.

Max opened her eyes, head still spinning, when the car slowed to a stop. 

"What are you-" when Max saw, too, her half lidded eyes widened in horror. Billy noiselessly took a turn Max didn't recognise. She wasn't about question it. Confident they were out of range, Billy put his foot down. Max had about as much respect for road safety as her brother, but even she scrambled to put her seat belt on, gripping the car door to fill the space as best she could, as if bracing for a crash, while they whizzed past ten more houses. It wasn't impossible. Billy was a reckless driver, he knew what he was doing, but on back roads as seldom salted as these, she didn't fancy her chances. Then again, she fancied her chances of survival better than if Neil found her out this late, stinking of cheap spirits and Coca-Cola. 

"Do you think he saw us?" 

"Shut up." Billy spat back, turning the wheel abruptly. The back wheels swirved and skidded, but Billy got back control of the car in time to speed off, again. They were on the home straight, now, a long road without a single car. Max held her breath, shifting in her seat to see if their drive was empty now the house was getting closer. She breathed out. It was. They'd made it. 

But Billy wouldn't breath out, yet. The two of them scrambled to get out of the car. It tuned out Billy hadn't acted a moment too soon when he took that turn... 

... Neil was pulling into their road.

There was no time to stand around fumbling with keys.

"Quick, this way!" Max beckoned to the side of the house. Billy hesitated at the foot of the porch, but on hearing the dreaded sound of Neil's four wheel drive, in the distance, followed Max, almost slipping in the snow. 

She manically gestured for him to hurry up, "give me a boost, I didn't lock it." 

"You don't lock your window?"

"Spare me the lecture, you gonna help, or not?" But Billy was already lowering his fingers in a cage, growling at her clumsy hands on his face, steadying herself.

Later, Billy would reason if she hadn't been drunk, maybe they wouldn't have been caught. If Neil had left her alone on New Years, she wouldn't have been drunk. If Billy hadn't made him angry, Neil might have left her alone... But life just wasn't like that. 

Not for the car-accident-family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amended this chapter slightly to fit in a bit more. Unfortunately my computer is broken, so I've had to write this in a hurry on my phone (which I hate doing) !! Will probably amend again, knowing me 😂
> 
> Lots of complications, unanswered questions and to be continued...'s! Please leave a review telling me what you think so far, and know that it will probably all be different in a week or two because I'm a chaotic, dyspraxic mess of a human being who can't order stuff to save my life... Sorry!  
> Have a good week everyone!


	3. Part Three

_Stay by The Blue Nile_

An unfamiliar ding rang through the hallways of the Buyer’s new house. It was her least favourite thing about the place- that damn doorbell. She never got round to tearing it out with her hands. It played ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ and, while proving itself endlessly entertaining for Will, it made Joyce jolt and cuss every time. But this evening, she was waiting expectantly. Every Sunday and Tuesday night, the doorbell became just a little less unwelcome.

On the first two chimes, she didn’t jump, but finished scraping the diced carrots into the pan and put the knife down, wiping her hands on her trousers. Joyce caught herself in the mirror on the way out of the kitchen. Two rosy blotches made her look like she’d been running, and then there was her hair- the steam from the potatoes had frazzled it beyond repair. Smoothing it down, she caught herself. This was stupid. She wasn’t a teenager anymore, he’d seen her look much worse. Much worse. Still, she wouldn’t rush to the door until she’d wiped the excess makeup from beneath her eyes, and tucked a few loose strands behind her ear. 

“Hey Hop,” Opening the door, she beamed, not used to see him looking so casual wearing nothing but his sweatpants, a vest and a pair of clunky combat boots. She immediately scolded him for wearing so little in minus four degree weather, exactly as he predicted she would. But he didn’t look cold in his sweat drenched clothing that hung off of him- not like it did last year.   
“Doesn’t that get on your nerves?” He asked, referencing to the offensive jingle. Joyce replied with a ‘don’t even go there’ look that made Jim chuckle in that way that he did when he only showed four front teeth. Joyce didn’t fixate on it for long, insisting he come in and get warm, watching him bashing his combat boots on the porch welcome mat. 

“El?” She called out, but their music was turned up too loud.

They’d been ’studying’. Will, Mike and El. That’s what they called it. In all fairness to the kids, they started out with nothing but the best intentions, but studying led to questions asked by El, which led to distraction, and soon the three of them were laughing and making jokes about the teachers at school. They did sometimes get homework done, and helped El catch up on a few subjects until she became overwhelmed with everything she’d missed. But Mike would explain it simply, patiently. Today, however, was never going to be successful. El hated Shakespeare, as did Mike, and not half an hour had gone by before El completely gave up on her literature report. Besides, Mike told her that the character themes in ‘Macbeth’ never really mattered that much anyway. 

Will had recently come into his own, and helped El with the art subjects, with design and music. He helped Mike, too, and even though Mike hated art, he liked hearing Will so passionate about something again. They sat, listening to him talk about Wolfe von Lenkiewicz to Philippe Druillet with wide, shining eyes. Much was the same today, he was showing them an artistic interpretation of Mr Harvey, their math teacher. They all laughed at how gratuitously huge his nose was, how bulging his eyes were, how skinny and long his legs were. Will had never felt more gratified that they thought it was so good. Mike said he should bring it in and show Dustin and Lucas.

“And Max?” Will asked.  
“Yeah…” Mike looked back at the drawing, “Yeah, Max too.”

“El?” Joyce’s voice could be heard from downstairs.

“El, your fathe-“ Joyce stopped herself half way through the word, clearing her throat, “Um… Uncle Jim’s here, sweetie.”

“Uncle Jim?” Hopper mouthed, contorting his face, bemusedly. Joyce shrugged, defensively, whispering “I don’t know what the…” she waved her hands “protocol is!”   
“Not uncle Jim.” Jim laughed, and Joyce waved him off. No movement came from upstairs  
“El? I’m gunna go get her, that music is so loud, I can’t imagine they’re getting anything done. Don’t touch anything, you’re all sweaty.”  
“So you don’t want a hug?” Hopper managed to grab her in her final stride, while Joyce screamed, playfully hitting him off of her. He was soaked, smelling of sweat and the winter wind, log burners and cigarettes. Joyce told him off again for acting like a teenager, and he thought it was only right, seeing as she was now blushing like she used to do. She blushed the same as when she was sixteen, when he called on her an hour early just to see her with her rollers still in, with half a burned cigarette in her smiling mouth. Jim looked at her smiling now. She wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same. 

Hopper wondered if it was just in his head, or if she really did have more of a manic light in her eyes, now, being constantly terrified of everything being ripped away from her at any given minute. The events over the past four years hadn’t left him unscathed either, nor the years before that. To Joyce, his eyes hadn’t lost any warmth, per se, but they’d gained something both melancholic and content. When he blinked, she thought he closed his eyes for too long. It was like he was desperately tired of something.

El had made his life so much better, she couldn’t deny. He cussed less and sang Bob Dylan to himself more, told less rude jokes and started making bad puns- that no one in their right mind would laugh at. No one but her. Joyce hadn’t seen him this happy since when they were kids. Sara was different. Sara was the beginning of a new Jim, but that Jim died when she did, and Joyce remembered mourning for them both. Since then, he’d been what he always had been. But El was another beginning for him, a different rebirth. Just like a cat has nine lives, Joyce was convinced that Hopper had only three- that if he lost El, there would be no more beginnings. Perhaps that was why he was so protective of her, why he would drive El to school himself even though the gang had pooled together three months worth of arcade money to buy her a bike last Christmas. Perhaps it was why her curfew was at half past five in the autumn and winter, and half past seven in the spring and summer, and why he would never let Mike come to the house when he wasn’t at home to ‘keep an eye on them’ (that one Joyce found most difficult to understand, but chose not to question his parenting.) 

Joyce was fighting the balance with Will, also. Not quite as strict as Hopper’s curfew, Will’s was nine, and a ride home from a responsible parent, with a phone call to let her know if he’d be any later. He now had locks on his windows and slept with a panic button under his bed. Johnathan almost had him convinced that the last one was a joke. 

But Will knew his mom… that panic button was no joke. 

Joyce made her way upstairs, still flushed, “El, sweetie? Your fathe- damn it- Hopper.” She knocked on the door, peeking through the gap. Will turned down the radio.  
“Hoppers here, time to pack up. Mike, you staying over?”  
“If thats okay?” Mike’s voice had broken so much over the past year, he now sounded like he had a perpetual sore throat.  
“Sure, call your mom though, okay?”

Mike nodded, and El swung her purple bag over her shoulder. Half way through the word goodbye, Mike told her he’d see her out, hoping to have a moment on the landing to steal a kiss. So completely predictable, Will thought, and rolled his eyes, making kiss faces at Mike. Mike scoffed, then smiled, but didn’t really respond to Will’s teasing. At least, not like he used to. If it had been Dustin or Lucas, Mike would have shoved them or punched them in the arm. How much Will resented that, there were no words.

No one teased him anymore. His mom spoke to him too gently, his brother wouldn’t even joke around with him on the phone. Now Mike? Everything that happened wasn’t going to traumatise him like that, he wouldn’t let it. But this ‘special treatment’ didn’t make it easy, and he spent all his time telling people ‘he knew they were kidding’, or ‘it’s okay, you can mention it’. There were moments he’d stand up for himself, or even just speak in a voice louder than usual, and all he was met with was either an apology, or silence. It was becoming a problem. The only one who didn’t tiptoe around him was Max, and she was hardly ever around, anymore.

Mike hardly noticed when he left Will in his room how his nostrils flared, and his eyes went thin. He stopped El before she got to the stairs, grabbing her arm. There was a second of panic, before she turned to see Mike standing there, with his floppy black hair, a ringlet fallen over one eyebrow, and his stupid smirk that made one of his eyes squint slightly.

“Call me when you get back, okay?”  
El nodded, smiling with her mouth closed.

Suddenly, there was nothing else, Hopper wasn’t waiting for her, Joyce wasn’t cursing downstairs because the roasted vegetables had caught. They were alone. Mike’s voice wasn’t the only thing that had changed, but his height, too. He wasn’t so tall he towered over her, but tall enough that when he stepped closer, she felt the urge to stand on tip toes to reach his lips. El had started wearing makeup that year, nothing heavy, but anything that could slip past Hopper. Nancy had given her some, now she was working so much, she hadn’t much time or occasion to wear it anymore. There was nothing too risqué in the selection; some mascara, some black shadow she hardly ever got to wear, some lip balm and a coral blush that made her look healthy and young. El wrapped her arms around his neck, and he put his hands on her waist, just like they had done two years ago. Not only were they now alone, they were there- in the school gymnasium. The gymnasium that may as well have been heaven to Mike- blue tacky tinsel and paper chains only adding to its perfection. The song was playing, and the people were talking and gasping and pointing, but it didn’t matter. Mike leaned in and kissed her.

“Hey, kiddo, you ready?” Hopper’s voice from the bottom of the stairs created a vacuum that sucked them back to earth. They stepped away from one another. The whispering people materialised, the blue tinsel disappeared, the music stopped. El smiled, coyly, and ran downstairs. Mike followed her, being careful to avoid Hopper’s ‘death glare’, or what he was assuming to be his ‘death glare’. It wasn’t. It was his ‘weary look’, as Joyce called it, a look she’d had the day Johnathan left for NYU- a ‘my baby’s growing up’ look. 

El looked him up and down. “You’re wet.”   
“No, he’s not wet, he’s sweaty.” Joyce crinkled her face, and Hopper smiled, holding his hands up.  
“I know, I’m sorry, didn’t have time to shower today. Here,” he pulled El in, this time, “come give your uncle Jim a hug-“ she giggled and grimaced and told him to get off of her, but without her powers, she was only a tiny thing compared to him, and really no match. Mike was okay to look on as a bystander, sitting on the bottom stare. El giggled, something rare even to him, at Hopper’s childish antics. Joyce’s small laugh as she clutched a dish cloth to her chest accumulated to the general, pleasant background noise while Mike had a series of thoughts: 

That life was finally good to them now, that she deserved all this and more, and he would do anything so that she might keep it forever. 

Until the days where she’s picking up her own children from their friend’s house, the day she worries about burned vegetables and working a job for herself, doing something she loves. And they would have weekly dinners at Lucas’ because he’d have the biggest kitchen. Dustin would bring his daughter and Will would bring his two girls, and they would go downstairs in the basement and play D and D with Lucas’ boys, while the grown ups would sit at the table, using grown up words that were more foreign to him than they were to El. But they’d all join the kids in the end, (because they would never actually stop playing D and D).

Mike made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t be like his dad. He’d take an interest in his family, and ask how their days were, not just on valentines day or mothers day, but every day. He’d notice when El had been crying, and he’d know her well enough to know how to make her happy again. And when his kids needed him, he’d show up. Every time one of them had a nightmare, he’d read them the Hobbit- and do all the voices. He would clap at the end of every nativity play, embarrassing El by standing up to cheer, and being the only parent to do so. He would buy them both a bike for Christmas. El would tell them to be careful, and would secretly use her powers to stop them from falling while he taught them in the park, because they couldn’t afford the house with the big driveway, not yet. 

But he would work any job that payed well, he didn’t care. It would only be temporary until they could afford the house they’d wanted, because El liked having Hopper come to stay, and so did the kids. The kids would call Hopper ‘Bopper’ because Mike knew he hated it, and therefore encouraged the nickname as much as possible. But Hopper would learn to like it in the end, and the kids would go on calling him Bopper until the day they moved out, went to college wherever they wanted to go, not far away because El never wanted to feel she was losing them. They’d come home for Christmas and stay until the new year, because it reminded them of how happy they were, what the smell of log burners, and toasted eggo waffles meant to them. And they’d laugh about the time when Dad would come home from a trip to the gym (because Mike also promised himself he’d be totally ripped by then), covered in sweat, trying to hug his little girl, while El was watching on the bottom step, holding a dish cloth to her chest, smiling with wet eyes and thinking about this very moment. Thinking about just how far they’d come. That was the life she deserved. 

If only that was more than a daydream, then the story might end there. But if Mike had read Macbeth, he’d know to question the relation between fate and will. Not knowing both would play a great part in his own life. Both were more like dancers than adversaries, and while free will was getting tired, sometimes fate just didn’t let the curtain fall.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God) by Kate Bush__
> 
> El and Hopper have an awkward conversation on the way home, with a mysterious, traumatic interruption...

__Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God) by Kate Bush__

Passing headlights flashed white light on the droplets on the window. A song he’d heard too many times today played quietly on the radio. El reached to touch the cold glass, sleepiness made her head too heavy for her neck to hold any longer, and she rested it against the car door, watching every passing light. Hopper saw her out of his peripheral vision, a flash of white light and there she was. She’d grown taller, and her hair looked pretty today, he thought. Not gelled back or short, but braided at the sides and Hopper wondered if Joyce had done it, or if she had managed to do it herself. He made no comment on it, because by the look of her, she was also asleep. A shade of deep purple he couldn’t distinguish as makeup was under her eyes. For once, he hoped it was, because if she hadn’t been sleeping, that meant one thing: the nightmares had started again. 

He had to remind himself those days were over. She didn’t have those kind of nightmares anymore, the ones where she woke up screaming, the glass in the window being smashed so many times, he was debating replacing it with a sheet of iron. But she felt guilty for waking him, scaring him every night for weeks, seeing him run into her room and cut his feet on the shards of glass before she could stop him. Soon she got so afraid of the nightmares, she stopped sleeping all together, reading instead, or practicing her words. It was a rough couple of months for them both, and he’d never seen her look so vacant, with such an opacity to her mind, it frightened him. So he did the very last thing he wanted to do. He organised a sleepover. With the help of Joyce and Nancy, the three of them teamed together to decorate her bedroom while she was at school, putting a few sets of her golden Christmas lights around her new dressing table, which Nancy helped fill the drawers of, along with her new wardrobe- packing in all of her clothes she never wore anymore. And, at long last, Hopper installed double glazing, calling in a favour from Dr Owens to give him the number of the supplier for the specialty glass in Hawkins lab. That evening, El came home from school, not really knowing what to expect from a ‘sleepover’ at Hopper’s. She expected him to leave them to it, with a microwave meal each and a large bag full of left over Halloween candy. Mike had tried to stall her as long as possible with AV club, even going to his house to pick up his overnight bag. Hopper, Joyce and Nancy needed every last minute for those final finishing touches. 

When they arrived, Hopped jumped in her way, and she looked at him as cautious and confused as the day he put a plate of green peas in front of her. But he seemed excited, and her curiosity peaked when Joyce suggested she wear a blindfold. Mike saw her reaction to that suggestion, so, instead, he covered her eyes with his own hands, while Hopper led her into the doorway. That reveal was something she would never forget. El was so dreary and fatigued, she hadn’t even seen the room properly before she started to cry, covering her face and making awful gasping sounds. Hopper was the only one who wasn’t confused. Sara used to cry when she was tired, and the kid must have been so overwhelmed to have everyone there all at once, being on her own for more than a year. He waved off their concern and took her in one arm, rubbing her shoulder with the other.

‘I hope this means you like it,’ Hopper had said. He always had a knack of shattering the tension, much to the relief of everyone, and El laughed while she cried, finally hugging Hopper back. That night was one she would remember in the dark times to come. The night of the sleep over, the night of the surprise. That was the night that the nightmares stopped. 

Slowly, she began to laugh again, and the vacancy behind her eyes filled until it seemed overflowing. Months passed and her new room became less of a gesture. Sometimes it was littered with clothes and makeup, open books and old class assignments. She’d spend hours in there, talking to Mike or playing The Runaways too loud, reading or writing. He liked it. Not the Runaways- or Mike- but everything else. And this old cabin in the woods, with its stacks of dusty books and old tripwire surrounding the perimeter, it grew into the title of ‘home’, like Mike grew into the title of ‘boyfriend’.   
Hopper was the only one that hadn’t grown into his legal title, and he didn’t push it.

The two of them hardly talked about it, knowing the truth behind such a seemingly playful word ‘Dad’. ‘Papa’ brought back memories too painful to even make reference to. Besides, the occasion never called for it. Either they were alone, or with Joyce, Will and Mike. 

The second he handed her the paper, all those months ago, she smiled, but it faltered when she asked what it meant. 

“It means…” You’re my daughter, he thought. 

But that word also brought it’s own baggage. So he said, “It means we take care of each other now. I’m your… legal guardian. Type deal…” He would never be so cruel as to make her call him Papa, or even dad. He wasn’t even sure if he was ready. But the relief that he saw in her face- when she gathered the words ‘legal guardian’ was to replace… the other word- it prodded him in the chest.   
“Legal guardian.” El smiled with shining eyes. 

Hopper hadn’t gave it a second thought. Until her first parent teacher conference. Never before had he heard her correct so many people.   
’So, this must be your father! Nice to finally meet yo-‘  
‘-He’s my legal guardian.’ All her teachers showed this uncomfortable sympathy, not knowing El preferred it that way. Then- it prodded him in the chest again. But tonight… There was no harm in asking, was there? He definitely didn’t want uncle Jim to stick.

“El?”   
“Mm?” 

His mouth moved around the words silently for a moment. “Tonight, did it… make you…” She turned and looked at him. Why did he look so nervous? “What Joyce meant… It’s just… She doesn’t know what the protocol is.” 

‘That’s it, Jim’, he thought. ‘Make it about Joyce, she won’t be able to see straight through that.’ He sighed, giving it one last shot, “I guess I’m checking up on the whole… thing.”

They passed two more cars, two more flashing lights that drew shadows that bowed across her face. 

“Protocol?”   
Jim was focusing on the road in front, the circular expanse of it lit by headlights.  
“Way of things.” He clarified, “like a kind of… arrangement.”  
“What about our arrangement?” She leaned back, again, drawing wobbly lines in the condensation with her index finger.   
“Our arrangement… You know, what I can call you, what you can call me.”

But El didn’t respond. 

She had bolted up, looking out the window, suddenly. The abrupt 90 degree angle of her spine made him finally look at her. She was breathing too quickly. Something was wrong. She strained her neck, until the image she’d seen shrunk with distance. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she scrambled, clutching the back of her seat, trying to see out the back window. 

Hopper asked her what was wrong. Her mouth was frozen open, her jaw quivering with tension. 

“El?”  
“Stop the car.” It was barely audible, her throat was too dry to produce words.  
“What?”  
“Stop the car!”  
“What is it? What’s wrong?”

She shot out her arm, and Jim flew back in his adjustable seat, too far back to reach the peddles. The car made a screeching sound and lurched forward, grinding to a halt. He screamed at her, asked her what the hell she was doing, but El ran out the truck. Hopper followed her as soon as he felt her power flee him, like a tight ribbon being pulled our from around his stomach.

“El, stop!”

El didn’t turn back to explain. Her sneakers printed their heart shaped stamp on the snow covered dirt path. The cold shot air out her lungs and she didn’t stop until long after her gasping for breath was loud and heavy. By the time Jim caught up, he spun her round fiercely, “don’t ever do that again!” he panted, and he would have screamed hell’s fury at her again if he hadn’t seen the tear streaks down her cheeks. An unmistakable panic exposed the whites of her eyes. She was light headed from hyperventilating, but she still tried hitting him away from her, nothing like earlier, when he picked her up from Wills, playfully ensnaring her in a sweaty hug.

“Kid! Hey! Hey, hey, hey,” Jim snatched at her wrists, and she cried too hard to resist him this time.  
“El, it’s me, it’s just me.” The wildness in her eyes faded gently when she saw him. Hopper didn’t waste time appearing confused, but firm and grounded, exactly what she needed; her own anchor, pulling her back to sanity. She threw her thin arms around his waist, holding him for dear life. This time around, she gave no thought to the damp vest.

“What happened?” His question elicited another round of guttural sobbing, and without being able to answer, only squeezed him tighter. Jim looked into the snowy woods, tinted blue by the moon beams making their way through bare branches, just like the night he’d found her. Nothing moved, there were no prints, no sounds, except far off cars, and the child crying in his arms. That didn’t matter. He didn’t need to be convinced with visual proof, not anymore. If they were being watched in the dark, he’d take proper precautions. Leading El quickly back to the truck, he hadn’t noticed one of two things. 

He hadn’t noticed until he opened the door, looking down, that his hand was held over the gun that resting in it’s holster.

Secondly, he hadn’t noticed the man with silvery hair that blended with the dark hues of the night, leaning against a black van 100 metres away-  
“We won’t get too close, Paige, not tonight.” He said to a silhouetted figure through the blacked out windows in the drivers seat. 

“We have time. We’ll take it.”


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic by The Cars
> 
> Steve meets a mysterious stranger on the way home...

__Magic by The Cars__

Dustin’s mom was home at 10pm. Not unusually late for her, and though she came home without even trying to hide the smell of McDonalds’s fries, Steve didn’t mind. He told her that Dustin was in bed.  
“I’ll go get my purse.“ She mouthed the last word, and Steve, after having made sure no sound or movement came from Dustin’s room, followed her into the hall, got paid, wished her goodnight, and walked home.

On his way home, it struck him how much it had snowed in the past half-hour. Every car that was parked on the street had a thick, white extension to the roofs that made them look comically tall. He was too cold to admire the beauty of it. When something beautiful enough to stop him called from across the street.

“Hey, excuse me? Do you live near by?” Steve turned around to see a girl. Steve did a double take. Wow. This girl. Ten times prettier than Suzanne Somers, at least. Her blonde hair was half hidden by a green wooly bobble hat, but the half that wasn’t hung in thick, loose curls down her shoulders. Eyes big enough, so that when she smiled, they weren’t made much smaller, but shone as white as the fresh layer of snow on the bus stop. Just like… another girl Steve knew.  
“Hey, I’m sorry, I know I’m a complete stranger, but I’ve been lost for like an hour- they said this was a small town!” She sounded exasperated, but kept good humour in spite of it.  
“That’s okay!” Steve was good at collecting himself in the presence of pretty girls, and followed his own advice given to Dustin, not two weeks back:

‘Pretend you don’t care, you’re just talking to another human being, nothing special about this one’

“Yeah sure, what are you trying to find? Maybe I can help.”  
“Just a motel, bed and breakfast, anything, really. My flight’s been delayed, so I’m… stuck here.”  
“There’s a Motel that’s open about an hour’s walk from here-“ Steve continued, gesturing with strong hand movements, “then on the main road for about half a mile. But, hey, if you’re cold, or whatever, I live ten minutes from here apartment 27 Lake Hill Avenue… I mean I know I’m a complete stranger.“ He repeated her words, and she smiled.  
“You’re the one who’s just given me your address.”  
“Well… you’re not wearing a mask,” Steve shrugged, “no… tear tattoos… no missing teeth…” As if to prove this, she laughed. Then looked behind her shoulder, she seemed to consider the offer. At last, she spoke,

“I need to make a call.”  
“I’ve got a phone.”  
“Phone’s do make calls.”  
“Problem solved.”  
“I don’t know your name.”  
“Steve.”  
“Amy.”  
“There, see? Not strangers anymore.”

She smiled, again. Their final repartee apparently confirmed it. The pretty blonde girl called Amy went home with Steve, smiling in her bobble hat… She never made a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Steve's a bit of a slut... But he has to have at least one fault- otherwise where's the development? 
> 
> Thank you to all who have read this far- I must admit, the pressure is definitely off- I don't think many are really reading ST fanfic at the moment (something I tell myself during every crisis of confidence I have with this story!)
> 
> Anyway, if just one person is reading this, and enjoying it, then I count that as more than a win!
> 
> Keep safe, people!


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nancy and Murray tackle a new case- but something about it feels familiar...

__Yesterdays by Billie Holiday__

A blinding white light was all he could see, until Nancy’s face emerged, holding the makeshift interrogation light they fashioned out of Murray’s old desk lamp.   
“So, you weren’t present at disappearance of-“ Nancy sat on the table and took a sweeping glance at the pocket notebook, “Janet Harrison?”

He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, getting way too into character. Johnathan used to laugh at this point, but Nancy preferred the realism. Murray was never one to give a wooden delivery- in character as himself or otherwise.

“No, I already told you I wasn’t home.”

She nodded slowly, making her way to the corner of the small square table, leaning in just a few inches more. Murray had taught her many things, but occasionally she would surprise him with a flair for intimidation that was unmatched.

“And you don’t find it…” she shrugged, nonchalant, “suspicious that the car was gone when you returned home?” Without missing a beat, Murray scoffed- folding his arms and shrugging his shoulders so casually, “Not… really, she might have just gone to the gym.”

In his authenticity, acted in the cool pale light- the only light source in the dark room- it was too easy for Nancy to forget where she was. To forget that this was an exercise and the case had already been solved five years ago in Chicago. Suddenly, the realisation hit her that this was a real case, solved by a real detective, interrogations carried out by a professional, and that was that terrifying comparison. In the silence that followed, her heartbeat quickened. Murray squinted- only breaking character for a second watching Nancy’s eyelashes flutter while her gaze darted to all four corners of the floor. A withdrawal of power like that was fatal in the art of interrogation.

She swallowed a stiff lump in the back of her throat, “… Okay-“  
“No!” Murray finally broke his role of interogatee, standing up with such force, he knocked his chair back and rattled the table, “No! No, not okay!”  
slamming two flat palms on the cool surface, he was so close to her, their noses were almost touching. Nancy jumped, before recoiling at his hot breath “You don’t just buckle under when someone offers an alternative suggestion as to what ‘might have happened’ have you learned nothing?”  
“It was a sound explanation, she went to the gym everyday!” She defended, flicking the light switch in the corner of the room. The immediate illumination of Murray’s basement, paired with his break in role was a comfort to her. Why did she find this so hard? Maybe because this was impersonal. Will. Barb. Now this next missing kid, that was personal. These were… well, fake. Newspaper cut outs, headshots, times, dates. Perhaps that was why her thoughts were a mess of facts and reminders on posture confidence.

While she was thinking this, she noticed Murray’s absence in the room. Then a metallic sliding draw could be heard, followed by soft rustling of papers. Nancy made her way over to where he was, hunched in the corner, fingering and thumbing files at lightning speed before he stopped and pulled out a newspaper. He flapped it in front of her face and practically threw it on the interrogation table. Ironing out the crumpled black text with her hand. Nancy read the title. 

’Chicago police solve homicide case of Janet Harrison’ 

It was the case. She took up the paper, her eyes scanning it wildly for the answer she’d spent four days trying to find. 

‘…car was taken by Killer, Marc Husto, in attempt to cover up the crime, according to Chief inspector Lawren’

Nancy threw the paper across the room.  
“Crap.”  
“Yeah, crap.” Coming from him, those words were especially hurtful, probably the shortest review of her investigation skills he’d ever given. Concise. To the point. Crap. He hadn’t finished sighing before he was in the kitchen, unscrewing a bottle of vodka. 

“Well…” Nancy followed him. She needed more than just ‘crap’, “was there anything I got right?”  
Dropping ice cubes from an unnecessary height, he answered her without looking up.  
“Yes. It wasn’t the brother’s video tape, it was the father’s.” Murray swirled his drink and took one giant gulp, walking past her again, leaving her frozen, wide eyed.

Man, she hated him sometimes; hated the way he made her follow him. Nancy knew how much he loved having a prodigy stumbling at his feet. It made him the educator, which was his natural born role. Nancy had a hard time reminding him this was a paid apprenticeship, and not one that would open a lot of doors for her in Hawkins, where Murray was renowned for his conspiracies against ‘the man’. He’d taught her a lot in the past two years, his teaching methods varying from a softly-spoken-patient-person to unleashing the fury of hell. Sometimes all in one afternoon. She had gotten used to his mood swings, his temper tantrums and his theatricality. He was never cruel, blunt, maybe, but not harsh- not sober, anyway. This was different. He knew how hard she’d been working on this case, as her first one, he’d given her no leeway- just facts, an empty cork board, and four days. She’d been working strict hours, with lunch breaks made up of Chinese takeaways on the fire escape, suggested by him, surprisingly, for the benefit of fresh air every once in a while. 

Nancy was sleep deprived and dangerously close to grabbing him by the beard and punching one of the lens out of his glasses. It was the father’s video tape? Not the brother’s? That was all she got out of four days of research?   
“That’s it?” Her raise in volume after such a heavy minute of silence almost made him spill his second refill of vodka tonic. She unfroze and slumped in his armchair, throwing her arms up hopelessly, “So I suck at this.”

He had to feel for the kid. The first case he got was a missing persons report, nothing clever, nothing intricate or puzzling. He found the guy passed out on a barstool in Shady Grove. No interrogation required. She’d done well, and it struck him he hadn’t been completely fair, giving her a case that took the professionals five days to solve. To remedy her hopelessness, he reflected on all the things she had done well. 

“You don’t suck.” In a meagre attempt at boosting her spirits, he placed the glass on the coffee table and sat opposite her, “I liked the way you checked the report, like you forgot her name.” The two shared a wry smile. Nancy had been studying the case for four days, the fact that she checked her pocket notebook for reference to the missing girl’s name- now that was tactical. Nancy was following Murray’s advice in one of their lessons on interrogation. 

‘Never seem too invested in the case, your interrogatee gets sloppy when he thinks this is just another Tuesday for you.’ 

Nancy scribbled that down, along with every other tip, instruction and reference. She spend weeks bullet pointing and mind mapping and testing herself, until her head felt dense with data. Karen never stopped wondering what Nancy was doing all the time- and the lie she was ‘studying to become a journalist’ was only a half lie- it kept them satisfied and gave her the excuse she needed for skipping town, spending hours in her room and disappearing at a moments notice. She didn’t mention Murray. Or what it was she was really training for- the position of private investor. Because if she had to explain that- she would have to explain why. And why was the hardest question anyone could ask. 

But she might never need worry about explaining that to her mom and dad. Not if ‘crap’ continued to be the word that summarised her efforts. She slumped into the arm chair, snatching Murray’s glass of vodka tonic from the coffee table, and drained it in one swig. He didn’t argue, just sighed and went to make himself another. Nancy watched the ice crack, and wiped away the building condensation with the sleeve of her jumper. Her hand throbbed, numb with the cold. Then she saw through the opacity of the glass, her white scar, embossed on tight, shiny red skin. Now, it wasn’t simply her hand that went numb. Her entire body felt cold, legs heavy and face drooping. This happened sober or drunk, whenever she thought about him. 

Johnathan had been gone for fourteen months at NYU. But why was she even counting? It wasn’t like he was coming back for her when he graduated. If they hadn’t left things so badly, she might have hoped for a visit, a phone call. But things were said that night, things that they didn’t mean, and, more disturbingly, things that they did.

Murray shook her from her thoughts, shouting from the kitchen, though his basement was small enough to carry a whisper. 

“So you’re going to take the case? And don’t insult me by asking ‘what case?’” Looking at the clock behind him, he hissed at the reading 6:27, like it was a number on the scale, lying to him, like the last hour was just water weight. She let him finish his analysis, justifying his observation with no interruption apart from a silent eye roll, “I saw the rolled up newspaper in your bag. What is it this time?”

She put the empty glass back on the coffee table, and rummaged through her bag, sliding a photograph on the kitchen counter. It was a kid. Between the ages of 14 and 16, Murray guessed. He had a strange face, sharp features, made sharper by his unawareness of this photo being taken, squinting against the sun, his rucksack on one shoulder as he crossed the street.

“Matthew Nelson. Born October 1970, lived outside of Atkinson, a City in Nebraska, with his mother- Mrs Haleen Nelson. No extended family.”  
“I’m bored.”

Nancy scowled. He could be such a child after a drink or two. She ignored him.

“Matthew went missing six years ago, then eventually reappeared. No one questioned it. The kid was called ‘troubled’ they put it down to his father’s disappearance, that he ran away from home to look for him. Six months ago, he went missing again, reports were filed, only this time, they disappeared.”  
“What do you mean disappeared?” The creases in Murray’s forehead, and sudden sobriety made it clear that his interest was piqued. Spurred on by the interest, she continued, gesturing firmly. 

“I mean there was never a record of him to begin with- birth certificates, passports, school pictures, nothing. I made copies of the old missing reports, the fliers, everything- but I looked last week and, according to all sources, he never existed.”  
“Okay… so…“   
“So this is the third kid who’s been reported as ‘lost’ one week, then disappeared off the face of the planet the next!” Nancy spoke this so quickly, she was almost out of breath. Murray didn’t move his head, but his eyes darted suspiciously from Nancy to the photograph.  
“How many?”  
“Matthew Nelson, Amelia Steel, and Liam Paige! And it’s always the same: small town kid, not well known, not well missed, with a mentally unstable single parent.”

The creases in his forehead smoothed, “what makes you think the mother’s mentally unstable?” Without looking up from the scattered reports that were now getting soggy from the mini puddles of stray ice cubes, Nancy answered him simply.   
“She’s in Stafford St James hospital- it’s a mental institution.”  
“That doesn’t mean she’s mentally unstable.”

The inference punched her in the chest, she hadn’t even thought of it before, “what, you think-“   
He shrugged, “-that’s what I would do if I were the asshole stealing little boys and girls.” His eyes developed a blank emptiness she’d only ever seen once, and that was two years ago, when he was processing something impossible. Even then, he remained distant. This time there was a glossy redness that disappeared as quickly as it came. “What’s the one person who would fight to the death to find you? When no one else will?”  
“… A parent.”  
He nodded, translating as ‘exactly’, “Joyce Buyers: people thought she was insane. Because parents, they’re a nuisance, they really are… for not sitting still and shutting up when their baby’s taken away from them.” To say she was concerned for him was an overkill. Nancy was too confused to notice him turning his back, hunched over the sink, downing his third drink and hissing through gritted teeth at the strength of it. 

“But no one else? No one is looking for him, no one even believes his mother?”   
“You’re asking the wrong questions! Lesson for the day- take it from me, okay, honey? Nothing erases concern like the word ‘crazy’” His eyes went wide at the word ‘crazy’ and Nancy didn’t believe the nervous system depressant bull. He was drunk. But he carried on with his ‘thinking routine’, taking out another music record. Yesterdays. Billie Holiday. Nancy sighed at the melancholy opening notes, looking over the papers, at the photo one more time. It didn’t make sense, she told him. 

“Why go to all that trouble?” She justified, her words slurring a little now the alcohol had reached her head and made it heavy, “why not just take an orphan, a kid off the street?”

Murray had no answer for her. He sat back down, resting his elbows on his knees, propping up his bearded chin on his hands, pressed together. Nancy was tired of watching him think.

“Okay, so the father went missing. As in, he never knew him. But if they stole a kid with parents… they must have needed information about the parents as well as the kid. Went missing when he was ten years old. Missing for seven months. It was put down to him looking for his father.”  
“A plausible alibi. Maybe he found him, found out he wanted nothing to do with him.” She feigned an exaggerated bewilderment, sarcasm lacing her words-   
“I thought you didn’t buckle under when someone offers another suggestion as to what ‘might have happened’?”  
“You’re a real ass when you’ve had a drink, you know that?” He rose above it quickly enough, and kept pulling at his beard, mumbling to himself “He came back… and he never tried to run away again… until six months ago…”

Nancy nodded, feeling dizzy at the quick movement, “now, there are no records of a boy who was missing. Will was all over the papers, and he was only missing for a week. But no evidence at all? The only evidence is the mother. Maybe they needed her. Or access to information about the her… like-”   
“-Medical records.” He finished for her, a realisation came over him, and Nancy fought to catch up. Medical records. But-  
“What for?”

“Now…” he smiled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, magnifying his eyes, “you’re asking the right questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY unpopular opinion: I actually prefer Murray to Alexei!!  
> Now I've gotten that out of the way! I do love these two- and Jonathan, too- but he's coming later. I think it's important that he went to NYU to study photography, Joyce isn't the kind of mum that would make him stay for her. And Nancy... isn't coping well, but more on that in the next chapter!
> 
> Keep safe, everyone!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nancy and Murray talk in the car, when Nancy discovers something disturbing on her way home

__Someone to Watch Over Me by Ella Fitzgerald__

Murray drove her home after the vodka tonics wore off with a drunk, emotional Nancy sitting in his passenger seat.

The murky sky, still thick with snow clouds, was becoming a deeper blue in the small hours of the morning. Nancy estimated it to be around 2 am, and was gratified by how close she was when, looking down at her digital wristwatch, the numbers read 2:04.

The roads were too icy to drive faster than 30mph, but Nancy stared at the light in front of the car as if she were the one driving. There was no point in putting the radio on, or making scattered small talk about the quality of his tyres or the weather conditions. Whether too drunk to care, or too familiar with Murray to bother, she didn’t hide her grey-tinted tears. He’d seen her cry so many times he wondered if it was worth buying the girl some waterproof mascara. He’d seen her drunk a lot, too- her one remaining coping mechanism that wasn’t throwing herself into detective work. And man did the girl know how to throw everything she had into a case. It was unlike anything Murray had ever seen. She would lose track of time, skipping meals, barely taking bathroom breaks, and working with drawn blinds under a white desk lamp for so long, she didn’t know whether it was night or day. Because it was the stops in-between cases that gave her headspace to think, and her every thought would turn to grief for her best friend, or get sucked into a Jonathan-shaped vacuum. Only, now there was room in Nancy’s brain for those memories, and blood alcohol levels high enough to get sucked in, without the power she relied on when sober to struggle against the tidal wave.

She’d only started to drift off when Murray pulled into her driveway, taking the door off child lock. Nancy broke their silence by thanking him.  
“Sorry about…”  
“Hey,” Murray put up a hand, “I’ve seen the same, and done worse, don’t fret.” Nancy smiled at his weird, philosophical way of speaking. A gust of wind blew against the car in the silence that followed. As if to check she was still in the passenger's seat, Murray turned to awkwardly glance at Nancy. She wasn’t taking the cue to leave, both her hands were nowhere near the car door handle. He was about to ask her to get out of the car, when in an adolescent huff, Nancy threw her head in her hands.  
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” She started crying, again.  
Murray frowned with one eyebrow, “you’re… kidding, right?” This reaction seemed pretty textbook of a broken heart to Murray.  
“No, no. No, I’m not that girl.” Nancy resisted so firmly, Murray felt like he needed to hold his hands up, “I don’t wallow in self-pity because I broke up with a boy,” she insisted, “I don’t. I think it’s just…” The man waited patiently until her Smirnoﬀ-addled thoughts could come up with the next word. It’s just… hormones, tiredness, tipsiness, stress, he expected to hear- expected her to play it down, wave it off, and laugh at herself. But he was set straight when the next thing Nancy said struck such a familiar chord with him, he couldn’t respond.

“I think it’s just that I don’t… have anybody.”

And it had only just dawned on him how right she was. Since Barb had died, and Steve was out of the picture, and since Jonathan had left for NYU, he hadn’t seen her with one single person. She hadn’t taken one phone call. No one seemed to care about her spending her days with a single, middle-aged, borderline alcoholic. Odd, considering everything that had happened in Hawkins.  
“What about your parents?” Murray asked, gently, “what are they for?” This was something he was genuinely curious about. For all the months they’d worked together, she hadn’t mentioned her parents. Every time he suggested she call to let them know where she was, she waved him off and mumbled that it was fine. Murray surmised it was something along the lines of emotional neglect, possibly the usual ‘suburban-dollhouse’ front. Nancy had the trademark characteristics of an oblivious victim of the ‘don’t cry, you’ll wake the neighbours’ generation.

“My mom’s hardly ever home anymore.” Nancy huffed, “and my dad… he…” Nancy’s large eyes glazed over, mournfully. Murray shifted uncomfortably. But why ‘uncomfortably’? He’d seen her cry, before, yes, but with a tense lower lip, frowning with soft wrinkles across her forehead. Pessimistic, cynical tears that frustrated her much like flies bothered someone trying to eat a sandwich outside. He’d never seen her like this. A slow, painful realisation took its grip on her, and Murray couldn’t do anything but sit and wait for her to cry again. Except, Nancy wasn’t sad anymore. She was indignant, straightening in her seat, turning her full body to face him, “h-he didn’t even ask me when Jonathan left… after Barb’s death, I mean…” The sudden movement made her head spin, and she rested it against the headrest.  
“He didn’t even ask me.”  
“Ask you what?”  
“Anything,” Nancy whispered thoughtfully, “he didn’t ask me anything.” 

‘How are you?’, ‘Can I help?’, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ 

Barb was gone. Steve couldn’t have had better intentions, but he only ever wanted to cheer her up. Those questions were always ‘Jonathan’ territory. Who would ask her those questions, now?  
After another heavy minute of the wind trying to tip the car over, Nancy found her words again. Her wide eyes stared at the dashboard in an empty way.   
“I hate feeling like I’m all I have. It’s not… enough.”  
“Take it from me, okay, kid? The number one rule in life-“  
“-never interview a suspect with a glitter pen?” Nancy raised an eyebrow, a wry smile flattening her top lip. The reference was a nod to their first week working together, where she came unprepared, and in a flustered panic brought her old pencil case she’d used in tenth grade. The bright colours and fluffy pens with animal prints on them made studying trig graphs bearable, sure, but she would never forget the disgust in Murray’s face when he asked if the pen she’d been using was, in fact, banana scented.  
“…okay,” Murray took a breath, holding up a second finger, “the number two rule in life… Don’t ever contemplate your life when drunk, stoned, or hungover… or sober.”  
“So… never? Got it.” They shared tired smiles, and Nancy groped for the car door handle, “night, Murray-“  
Nancy was halfway to shutting the car door when Murray stopped her.  
“Parents… do their best." Nancy froze, ducking her head below the roof of the car to see him, "That’s what the psychiatrists and the teachers, and the social workers say, right? That’s true. But the awful truth behind that truth is some people’s best just isn't good enough. Then it becomes your job to compensate for… whatever your dad didn’t do, or didn't know how to do. Aaaand, the truth behind those two truths… is that it blows.” Turning the engine off, he removed his glasses, polishing the smudges with a silk sheet he'd gotten out of his glove box. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Nancy. You’re upset because you’re right- you don’t have anyone right now, and you have got a lot to compensate for, and it’s not fair.” Murray wasn’t theatrical, or harsh, but matter-of-fact, and his uncharacteristic sensitivity caught her off guard. The gentleness in his voice wasn’t even sarcastic when he added, “but, you’re wrong about not being enough.”

He was right. She was alone, in a house full of people who didn’t speak to her. Nancy was famously prickly with her mother, but it hadn’t dawned on her until now how much she’d excused her Dad. He wasn’t like Jonathan’s dad or Steve’s dad. He hadn’t left them. He didn’t constantly tell her what a disappointment she was. What did she have to be angry about? The fact that he didn’t speak to her? It felt like something pathetically small, not worth being angry about, certainly not worth resenting someone over. But Murray was right. He’d made her feel validated, responsible, and empowered in the space of a minute. He’d seen her cry, talked to her, infuriated her, made her laugh. When a crushing thought passed over Nancy, it sobered her more effectively than if she was plunged into an ice bath.

Murray was more of a dad to her than her own father.

“Nancy?”  
Nancy shook herself from that thought, “yeah?”  
“I’m freezing, shut the door, and go away.” Nancy rolled her eyes and slammed the car door, smiling. The interior light switched off, but she could still see Murray’s silhouette, holding up a hand to wave. She waved back in kind. As he pulled out of her drive, she tightened her coat around her waist and felt the bones in her fingers as she did so. A new warmth circulated her body, now. A softer, less critical voice that whispered maybe she was enough for herself, and maybe she would be fine.  
Too drunk to climb up to her bedroom window, even though she’d left it unlocked for this very occasion, Nancy decided to risk being caught through the front entrance of the fortress. She clumsily fished through her bag- shoving her pocket notebook between her teeth to empty the overpacked space. She had started unzipping the side pockets of the bag when the distinct sound of clopping heels against their concrete path came up behind her. Nancy turned to look. The notebook fell out of her mouth.  
“Nancy?” The whites of Karen's eyes shined in the dark. Nancy looked her up and down, and in this freaky Friday alternate universe they were living in, Karen tightened her coat around herself defensively against this inspection, much like Nancy had done the first time she’d tried getting away with a mini skirt in 7th grade.  
“Mom? What are you doing home so late?”  
“I had my dance class, I didn’t tell you?” Nancy’s eyes were then immediately drawn to Karen’s over-the-knee, black boots. Her brow raised as Nancy asked her mother exactly what kind of dance class. As she was mentally preparing herself for a disturbing answer- just on the off chance Karen actually was having a mid-life crisis, and spent her Sunday evenings learning how to entangle her legs around a pole- Nancy kept fixating on the state of her makeup.  
“Oh, I don’t dance in this,” Karen laughed too hard, “I uh… I keep my shoes and clothes there, I went out drinking with some girlfriends after it finished.” Nancy always knew she could lie as well as the next ‘rebellious suburban girl’. What she didn’t know was that being a good liar wasn’t passed down from her mother. Karen scratched her neck and laughed. Deep coral lipstick smudged just outside her lip line- bridging her cupid's bow. It would have gone unnoticed by Ted, maybe even by Mike. But assessing the small facts had been her life for the past year. Maybe it wasn’t incriminating enough for a confrontation right this second, but Nancy was tired, drunk, and upset- never a great combination for self-restraint. She looked her mother up and down, despondently- and maybe still looking for some redemptive clue. Nothing. The more she looked, the more sense it made. Karen couldn’t walk in heels that high, and her coat’s v-neck showed no hint of thick layers underneath. She didn’t usually wear that much makeup, and her hair looked as though she’d paraglided home… Like someone had run his hands through it, half pulling out the clasp. On top of all that, the look of surprised embarrassment on Karen’s face when she’d seen Nancy standing on the drive. Nancy hadn’t seen that look since Mike and his friends used her bra to win a public water balloon contest.

The look had only just worn off and was covered over with a forcedly jovial smile. That smile was the most incriminating thing.  
“What? I’m not too old to have fun, am I?” Nancy found her keys, and opened the door, letting it fall on Karen behind her. Vodka still made her head feel heavy, and she clumsily kicked off her shoes, not bothering to wipe them, or leave them in the shoe rack. She shrugged off her coat and left it on the floor for good measure. Karen followed the shoes and coat into the kitchen like breadcrumbs. Nancy was drinking directly from the tap, letting the cool water drip down her chin, and onto her clothes. Karen was so shocked, she’d forgotten she was on the defensive, sidling passed her daughter to get a glass out of the cupboard. She told her in an authoritative whisper that if she wanted water, she’d drink it out of a glass. At that, Nancy whipped round with a look so sharp, it made Karen take a step back. “Does he have a car?” She whispered, venomously, “you still can’t drive, so he’d need a car, right?”  
“Nancy-“  
“-I’m not an idiot!” She’d been backed into a corner of the kitchen cabinets but tried shoving passed her mother. Karen didn’t move or make any attempt to pacify Nancy. In the state she was in, it would have been like trying to duct tape the faucet of a running tap.  
“I know you’re not.” Defeated, Karen sighed into her hand.  
“So? Is he well off? Good job, good education, good-”  
“-Nancy, can I spea-“  
“-what’s his name?” The question threw Karen off, and she replied seriously that she didn’t see why it mattered.  
“It matters!” Nancy finally broke out of her whisper, and Karen hushed her in a panic. The following ten seconds were spent listening for movement upstairs. When Karen was satisfied Nancy hadn’t woken anyone, she visibly unclenched. Her secrecy, whether hypocritically or not, made Nancy’s top lip curl.   
“Tell me…” Nancy pressed, “his name.” 

“Billy Hargrove.” 

All the air in Nancy’s lungs shot out like an unplugged inflatable armband. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’, her face spelled out. Max’s brother? The meathead from California who beat Steve half to death? That Billy Hargrove? She couldn’t mean him… he was a year older than her. Karen didn’t have to look at her face to know that she would never look at her in the same way again. So she didn’t open her eyes, only felt the rush of air as Nancy moved passed her, making her way up the stairs, and closed the latch on her door. The moon shined off of every reflective surface in the dark, quiet kitchen. The cupboard where they kept the glasses was still open. On the shelf underneath the taller, more uniform ‘guest glasses’, there was Mike’s red plastic cup. She didn’t know a lot about Star Wars, but she knew it was Darth Vader’s mask on the front of it, the black pattern had faded over time. She’d bought it for him on a whim when he was ten, and he hadn’t drunk juice out of anything else, even now, out of habit. Holly’s special grown-up mug was right next to it. It was the first cup she drank out of that wasn’t her baby beaker. Karen bought her a pink, flowery glass, but she wouldn’t have it, because it wasn’t yellow. Karen loved her daisy-chain-souled daughter. She loved that her favourite colour was yellow.

Ted snored loudly from their bedroom. The fact the sound travelled downstairs made the kitchen feel so much quieter.

Karen slowly shut the cupboard door, covered her face, and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Murray and Nancy… didn't know this was going to be a chapter in and of itself until I started writing it… but here we are!
> 
> I've got a real affinity with these two- and just any platonic, healing relationships. I don't know why, I think the psychology behind non-romantic attachments is just… so fascinating to me. And here we have a wise, wonderfully strange Murray, who sees a lot of himself in Nancy as his protege. But then, there's still this conflict, because Murray has lost his kid in custody, so in a sense, he feels like he's 'failed' his own kid (probably why he was so committed to Barbra Holland's case when he was introduced in the show.) Now he sees Ted's obliviousness to his daughter, and wants to help her come to terms with it.
> 
> Then there's Nancy, who's just lost the only person who understood her, and now feels the absence of it, not having 'shared' trauma anymore. I did think Nancy was a bit overly harsh on her mum in the series, but Karen's got her own issues- being ignored by a husband she married essentially for 'security'. I know it's Max's family that's the most dysfunctional, and then there's Jonathan's dad, Steve's parents who are absent in every sense of the word- it's easy to look at the Wheeler family as the 'normal family'. But that's what I love about Nancy's speech in S1- she unpicks this suburban facade and calls them 'the nuclear family'.
> 
> Being ignored, while not nearly as scarring as being abused in any way, is still really hard to deal with.
> 
> (Like that scene in the breakfast club, when Andrew asks Allison what her parents do to her- and she responds with 'they ignore me'. He doesn't shoot back 'they ignore you, that's it?' He just nods sympathetically, like he really understands how deeply awful that is… Friggin' love that film!)
> 
> I imagine therapy involves a lot of that- acknowledging that it's wrong, unfair, and wasn't your place to make up for neglect as a kid, but then realising that it's still your responsibility as an adult to compensate… Anyone else think Murray would have made a great therapist?
> 
> Speaking of therapy- sounds like a good idea for Karen. Bless her! I would say that things will get better for everyone, but that would be an abominable lie, I'm afraid ;-)
> 
> But anyway- rant over! This chapter had to happen for character purposes, but I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
